


Number Games

by Prettyraddawg



Category: Rick and Morty
Genre: Angst, Bullying, Eventual Happy Ending, M/M, Morty has OCD, Mutual Pining, Self Harm, Slow Burn, Suicidal Thoughts, Verbal Abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-09
Updated: 2019-09-16
Packaged: 2020-01-23 03:43:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18541576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prettyraddawg/pseuds/Prettyraddawg
Summary: Eleven. Eleven steps at a time, eleven books on the shelf, eleven yellow shirts, eleven pairs of blue jeans, eleven letters in his name, eleven white lies, eleven red lines, eleven times I tell myself it’s nothing.





	1. Everything By Eleven

**Author's Note:**

> In the beginning of this story, Morty is in a very fractured state of mind, which is why I used so much repetition and numbers and so on. As Morty’s mind begins to stabilize, the writing will become more fluid.

    I wake up at the usual time, 5:55a.m. I take 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11 steps to my closet. I grab my yellow shirt for Monday’s, and my Monday blue jeans and I clothe myself. My fingers rake through my hair 11, 10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1 times. 11 steps to the door, 11 more down the hall, 22 down the stairs, 11 to the dining room. I have a seat and wait for my family to arrive. I count the tic tic tic of the clock. 11 forward, 11 backwards, forwards and backwards.

    Next to arrive is  ~~Beth~~ mom. I can here breakfast being cooked, sizzling and humming, footsteps and the clatter of pans, the clink of silverware and the rattle of the refrigerators contents. 

     ~~Jerry~~ dad comes next, taking his usual spot, placing his iPad on the table and playing his balloon popping game. He nods contentedly while playing the mind numbing game.

    Summer is next, slouching down and scoffing at something on her phone. She’s grumbling as her nails click click click against the screen.

    Lastly, Rick Sanchez arrives. He stumbles in a way that suggests he got way to drunk last night.  ~~But I already knew that.~~

    Breakfast is place in front of me and I stare at it. I don’t want to eat. I don’t want to. But I pick up the fork and shovel in a bite of eggs. The texture is enough to make me gag, but I cover it well. I don’t want  ~~Beth~~ mom mad at me. Or mad at herself. I swallow without chewing. I’m used to it now. The second bite is easier. Eleven mouthfuls, all swallowed whole. The orange juice slides down my throat and I can feel it’s chill from within.

    Tap tap tap from  ~~Jerry~~ dad, click click click from Summer, clank clank clank from  ~~Beth~~ mom. The noises are bothersome. My backpack is slung over my shoulder and I walk 1, 2, 3-

    “Morty.”

    Rick Sanchez. His voice rough from sleep, smoke, and lack of alcohol. R, I, C, K, S, A, N, C, H, E, Z. 11. Eleven letters in his name. Eleven times he’s drunkenly stumbled into my room to tell me he’s proud of me. Eleven times he’s hugged me. Eleven.

    Each time I chant, “This means nothing.”

    Each time I tell myself, “I feel nothing.”

     My only hope is that one day it will be true. I hope that one day my thoughts won’t be plagued by the mad scientist. I hope that one day I won’t be tempted to reach out and grab his hand or trace the scars that litter his flesh or run my fingers through his frazzled hair or to press my lips to his.

    “Yes, Rick?”

    “Before you head to school can you meet me in the garage?”

    My response is a nod.

* * *

    The garage is a mess. Vials of neon liquids litter counter space, scraps of metal sprawl about the remaining area, tools both foreign and domestic are haphazardly tossed about. I feel claustrophobic in this place. 

    My body shrinks in on itself in hopes of not touching anything. I stand as still as a statue because I don’t want to mess anything up. It feels like a million years before Rick stumbles into his messy workshop. I feel like every second near him is another chance that he’ll notice I’m a disgusting and worthless liar. 

    Which is hard because I don’t want him to know but I don’t want to be away from him. So I count my breaths. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11. I allow my eyes to shut and I wait for whatever follows. 

    Whether it be Rick’s voice, a hand on my shoulder, a hand around my wrist, the familiar sound of a portal, I wait. I hope that it’s not the latter, because even though I’ve gotten better at hiding pain he’ll surely notice. He notices everything, and  _oh god_ what if he already knows, what if he’s known the whole time, what if-

    “Morty, your mom talked to me last night. She’s worried about you, and she wants me to handle it.”

    My eyes snap open.

    “Worried? Why would she be worried? Is it because of school..? I’m really trying Rick, I just don’t get any of it and-“

    “Morty,” he interrupts still facing away from me, “She thinks you’re depressed or something. That you might want to kill yourself.”

    My heart beats hard, I tap my nails to thumb to the rhythm in an attempt to slow my racing thoughts. And I count. Always counting. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11. 11, 10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1.

    “Why would she think that?”

    My voice is perfectly clear, laced with a lie so genuine I almost fool myself. The perfect mixture of disbelief, confusion, and accusation. But it is a lie. My mental state has been crumbling and I’ve done everything in my power to keep it in the dark.

    Because I can’t let anyone see how weak I am. Because they have their own shit to deal with, they don’t need mine. Weak, pathetic. But not useless.

    I will never allow myself to become useless. Useless means worthless, replaceable, meaningless. Without meaning I might as well be dead.

    “Show me see your arms, Morty.”

    His tone is not kind, not gentle, not loving. It’s harsh, it’s angry, it’s... disappointed?

    A single step backwards.

    “Why?”

    Confusion. Almost real, but I can hear the slight quiver, fuck. Fuck.  _Fuck._  

    He turns around to quick and he’s in front of me in a single stride. One of his calloused hands wrap around my my left wrist like a vice. I yank backwards in an attempt to free myself from his grip.

    My throat burns and I can feel a scream rising, my nails rip at the flesh on Rick’s hand. I’m thrashing and my brain is short wiring and my chest feels like it’s getting crushed and I can’t breathe.

    _“Let go of me!”_

    My voice comes out as a high pitched screech, that I would assume wasn’t human if I hadn’t felt the words tear past my own lips.

    The hand is gone. I stumble backwards and fumble for the doorknob. I swing the door open and sprint to my room, locking the door behind me. I lean back against the wood for support, and slide down. I tilt my head back and take a shaky breath.

    1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11. Looks like I won’t be going to school today after all. 


	2. The Slow Count

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Count slowly, tap your fingers, think of a happy thought, calm down. I am okay, I am okay, I am okay.

    Grounding techniques. That’s what the school counselor told me to do when the screaming in my head was to loud, when the weight on my shoulders was to much, when my wrists tingled with the want of a blade.

    _“Count slowly.”_

    1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10. 11. 11. 10. 9. 8. 7. 6. 5. 4. 3. 2. 1.

    _“Tap your fingers.”_

   Index to thumb, middle to thumb, ring to thumb, pinky to thumb. Pinky to thumb, ring to thumb, middle to thumb, index to thumb.

     _“Think of a happy thought.”_

    Me and Summer playing video games. I’m 10, she’s 13. It’s Mario Kart. She’s Princess Peach and I’m Luigi. She keeps letting me win. She looks happy. I feel happy.

     _“Calm down.”_

     “I am okay, I am okay, I am okay,” my voice is quiet and shaky and I’m grateful there’s no one around to hear how broken I sound. My breathing is slowing and I’m shaking less, so I think I can say it’s working.

    Until the _knock, knock, knock_ on my door.

    “Morty?”

    It’s Rick. He sounds calm, regretful, worried. I ignore the way my breath hitches and the way my hand shakes and the way the numbers spin into the letters of his name and the way I choke on my tears and the way I want him to barge in hear and hold me, kiss me, make me his-

    “Morty... I’m sorry. I’m just- I don’t know. Please let me in. Let’s talk about this, okay buddy?”

     _Buddy._ I think that’s my least favorite word to come from Rick’s mouth. And that tone. It’s enough to make me let the tears fall freely. He sounds so defeated, so tired. And sympathetic. Or maybe it’s just pity.

    The idea of getting Rick’s pity makes my blood boil. I stay quiet. Maybe if I ignore him he’ll go away.

    “Morty..? Are you okay?”

    There’s an underlying panic in his voice that I don’t understand. Still, I remain silent, wiping away my tears and snot.

    “I’m coming in,” he says trying the door, only to find it locked. He mumbles a curse under his breath.

    The sound of clinking metal tells me he’s picking the lock, so I shuffle out of the way of the door, knowing that he’s stronger than me and he’ll easily push it open even with me in front of it.

    I pull my knees to my chest and using my coping skills like I’m supposed to.

    Close your eyes, count slowly, tap your fingers, think of a happy thought, calm down. I am okay, I am okay, I am okay.

    The door swings open and I can hear Rick step into my room. I don’t open my eyes. I can’t see him. If I see him I’ll shatter into a million shards of glass. Glass. I wish I had a shard of glass. I squeeze my eyes tight, and I can see the glass slice my arms- fuck I wish I had glass. G-L-A-S-S, glass. Glass = blood. Blood = calm. I wish I was calm, I wish-

    “I’m really sorry. I’m glad you’re okay. I thought- I thought you- I thought I-“

    A muffled thud. I can’t tell if the sound is muffled by the screaming in my head or the stained carpet. There’s a cold hand on top of mine, holding it gently and yet firm. It’s only then that I realize my nails had been digging into the back of my neck.

    My eyes open and I feel to hot and I feel stiff and sticky. Probably from sweat, tears, and as it would seem, the drying blood under my nails and training down my fingers. He pulls my hands toward him and I squeeze them, my nails involuntarily digging into the scared flesh. I’m shaking and hyperventilating and I’m the ugliest crier.

    After my shaking calms and I can finally catch my breath, I wrap my arms around Rick’s waist and clamber into his lap.

    “I’m sorry, I’m really sorry- I’m okay.”

     No I'm not. I’m not fucking okay. I know that, he knows that, the whole goddamn world knows I’m a fucking wreck. They’ve always known.

    But he nods anyways, rubbing soothing circles into my back. He whispers gently to me, telling me it's okay.

    "It's okay Morty, I'm here. Grandpa's here..."

    I breathe in the scent of him, the spice of liquor, the cheap body wash, and something else. Something that makes my insides burn with desire.

    "I've got ya, Mort. You're gonna be okay..."

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gahh sorry this chapter is short, but the next one will be better I promise


	3. New Number

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He can never know. Not now, not ever. I can almost see the disgust in his eyes, the disappointment. "You love me," he'd say, "I thought you told me love's not real."

    Alone once more. I find myself alone more and more often. I may have been an alcoholic before, but now I seem to black out more often than not.

    So I tucked in the boy, the object of these  _feelings_ , and returned to my room. I find myself suckling on a bottle of liquor the same way a baby might suck on it's mother's tit. The thought makes me snicker. But my laughter quickly dies, my thoughts drifting to something eelse.To him.

    To a fucking idiot with no social skills, a bad habit of trying to be the good guy, a fucking  _child._ His name is Morty, five letters that make my head spin in a whirlpool of memories and emotions. A hurricane of disgust and lust. A tornado of shame and affection.

    I have never wanted to hold someone more than I want to hold the boy. I've felt lust, trust me, and this is not that. Well... It's a part of it, but that's besides the point. I thought I'd felt love, but it had only ever been short lived infatuation.

    Nothing had ever been this strong. So strong, in fact, that the only way to block out thoughts of him we're to get so innebriated that I literally couldn't remember anything. Hence my newfound desire to get blackout drunk every night of the week.

    My thoughts don't want to linger on one particular thing tonight, I move on to think about that cute little smile of his and it always made me feel lighter. Now I feel guilt. 

    What would he think, if I somehow managed to confess to him?

    But I know already. He would be disgusted, or at the very least disappointed that I was so morally corrupt as to see my own underage grandson as a prospective partner.

    I can almost hear him...  _"You love me?"_ And I would only nod, shakily.  _"But Rick, you said love isn't real."_

I laugh sadly to myself, at the idea of me confessing my love to the child like some innocent school boy. Like I were the child and not him. I think of running again, of just packing up and leaving like I have so many time before. The thought makes me sick, and before I could get a hold of myself I empty the contents of my stomach in a nearby waste basket. I blame the tears on the burning in my throat.

* * *

 

    I wake up with a hellish hangover, which I dull with a swig of bourbon. I groan and pull my aching body from my bed and out into the hall. The smell of bacon, eggs, and biscuits fill my nostrils, and I let out a contented sigh. I run on autopilot to the dining room and I join the rest of the family at breakfast. I feel like a zombie as I shovel in eggs. Finally I seem to wake up and take in my surroundings. By which I mean Morty. 

    God he's so fucking cute. I wish he would just tell me what's wrong. I wish he would just talk to me. I wish-

    "Hey Rick? Can we talk after breakfast?"

    "Y-yeah! Course we can, kiddo," I say, probably too quickly. I mentally curse myself for acting so childish and eager.

    He nods and smiles a goofy smile. I avert my eyes to my plate and blame my red face on annoyance of him being so naive.

* * *

 

    "Thanks. F-for last night, ya know," the boy stutters nervously, looking at his shoes. His face is red. Why is he so fucking cute?

    I attempt to respond, but cut myself off as the boy takes a barely perceivable step closer. 

    "I'm, uh, I'm sorry if I worried you..." another step.

    I feel almost trance like as I step towards the smaller boy.

    "Don't be sorry," I meant to sound strong and confident, but the words come out as barely a whisper.

    He looks up at me, his face still red, tears forming in the corners of his eyes. I wipe them away and leave my hand cupping his his soft face.

    "Rick, I-"

    His voice snaps me back to reality, and I try to jerk my hand away from him, but he's quicker than I remember, grabbing my hand and holding it in place. His eyes never leave mine, pinning me in place. Finally he releases me from his gaze, instead turning his face into my hand. His eyes flutter closed as he shakily inhales. I feel him press his lips to my palm and then he lets go of my hand. I can't bring myself to retract, and after a moment his eyes find mine, and he pulls away slowly.

    "I'm sorry, I just- I don't know- don't read to much into that okay? I didn't-"

    "Morty."

    He stops his rambling and watches me with tearful eyes.

    "Y-yes, Rick?"

    "I, uh, I l-love you, okay?"

    Silence.

    "I mean- it's just that- god look at you! You're perfect! I just wish you w-would talk to me, ya know?"

    Silence. I can't look at him, but I can't stop either.

    "I'm sorry- I'm so sorry- I know I'm so fucked up- this is so fucked up- you're so good and I'm just- I'm bad- I'm sorry, Morty-"

    "Rick... Don't be sorry..." and then he stands up on his toes and pecks me on the lips.

    "I have to go to school now," he says quietly laying a hand on my chest, smoothing down my ruffled sweater, and then walking out of the garage. I stare at the door when it closes and wait for this dream to end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry that the chapters have been so short!! I'm working on some other (larger) stories that have been taking up a lot of my energy, but I also don't want this story to get left in the dust! I hope you all understand. Love y'all <3


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